


Stones

by cognomen



Series: Cognomen's List of Things that Aren't Reptiles [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Gen, a little angst a little love a little fire it's cool, sad blanket sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: Februrary Ficlet Challenge; Prompt 'Huddling for Warmth'. Pairing 'Baze and Chirrut'.“I can smell the smoke,” Chirrut says.“Stones can’t burn,” Baze says. “The temple will survive.”





	Stones

It is only after the Empire comes that Baze notices how truly cold Jedha is. It never before seemed so harsh as it does, the first night banished from the temple.

Certainly, the city is half ablaze and the temple itself slowly grows hollower.

“They could at least let us warm our toes on the blaze,” Chirrut says, uncharacteristically harsh and sardonic.

Baze feels colder still with all the warmth gone from his friend’s tone. “If you ask them I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige you.”

“The fire has enough fuel already without me asking to be thrown on,” Chirrut snaps, seeing through Baze’s setup to the future remark and severing it cleverly at the knees. 

The trouble with too much foresight—Baze never gets to finish his own jokes. Right now, the bitter humor is the only fuel they  have.

Baze lowers his heavy body down onto the broken stone wall next to Chirrut. They are points of stillness in the flickering orange and burning night. Ash and cinders fall like the snow they so rarely see.

“I can smell the smoke,” Chirrut says.

“Stones can’t burn,” Baze says. “The temple will survive.”

The shell of it, anyway. Baze pauses to dig in his pack, glad Chirrut’s eyes are sightless and he cannot see how empty things will be in the morning. He must keep reminding himself that they have survived, that this means something.

That the cold in his bones is just the night settling in, and not the notion of his only home extinguishing in his awareness. He pulls a blanket out of his bag and slings it around Chirrut’s shoulders. 

“Baze,” Chirrut says, sharply.

“I’m not mothering you if you’re shivering.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Come here.”

Baze is pretty close already. He gets closer.

Chirrut puts the long edge of the blanket over Baze’s shoulders, too. He leans into Baze’s body.

His warmth has always been greater. Like a forge at the center of Chirrut’s soul, constantly smithing his heart bigger, better. Stoking his faith.

“Thank you.”

The warmth of them brings out the familiar scents trapped in the blanket; temple and kyber (salt-mineral, but warm and alive. People who knew what oceans were like told Baze that kyber smelled like sun-drenched shores) and tea. Not Tarine.

Baze shifts, finding a fresh patch of blanket to cover his cold nose with. Not  _ all _ Tarine.

“This isn’t the end,” Chirrut tells him, finding Baze’s hand under the blanket, gripping his fingers and warming their hands together.

Baze pulls the blanket closer around them and agrees, telling himself it’s not because in his experience, old things die slowly instead of suddenly.


End file.
